My Name is Gene Hunt
by Jazzola
Summary: Sequel to Who's Gene?: Gene and Alex are separated by decades, both lost without each other. Whilst Gene rebuilds his life and rediscovers who he is, Alex is trying to find a way back home. Even if she's unsure where home is anymore. Galex aplenty.
1. London

"My name is Gene Hunt. I was stabbed an' found myself in 1969. Was I mad, in a coma, or back in time?

"I'm parodyin' Sam Tyler, because I knew 'im. Back then. 'E crashed inter my world in 1973 an' eventually settled an' became my best mate. Sam was a good mate, 'elped me a lot, but… well. I can't ever see 'im again now. Sam chose ter go back there, ter kill 'imself. Crazy bastard. Always knew 'e wasn't quite all there. Just… smarts a bit, that's all. An' well. I know 'ow 'e feels now. 'E left Annie. I left Bolly.

"The thing about that… world, is that yer forget. Yer forget where yer come from, the people yer know. Within a couple o' years anyone 'oo said they were from the future would be labelled as a nutter by me. Yer get swallowed up inter that time, that place. Do things yer didn't think yerself capable of. Meet real people, people 'oo really existed, but… they're not them. Or are they? I just don't know.

"I met Sam Tyler. I fell in love with Alex Drake. An' now everyone's fightin' ter save 'er an' I'm stuck 'ere, in an 'ospital bed, alone. Well, my mam's next door, but… really, I'm alone. 'Cos nobody can understand that what I dreamed, it _was _real, it wasn't my mind, it wasn't a dream. That bastard counsellor with 'is "you'll 'ave ter adjust ter the fact that none o' that 'appened" an' all that bollocks… I bloody 'ate 'im. But I'm not allowed ter leave yet. I want ter go 'ome… wherever that might be. I don't know.

"I'm told I live ten minutes from the 'ospital, in a flat above that o' my friend Anne an' godson Max. They're fillin' me in about bits o' my life I've forgotten. Sorry, I 'ad ter stop recordin' 'cos the counsellor came in, an' if 'e 'eard this 'e'd probably 'ave me sectioned.

"See, I don't want ter forget back there. Whatever it might 'ave been, I lived through the seventies, the early eighties. An' they were… it was special, ter me. Even the shitty bits. Even when it all went wrong, or when I was bein' a total arse… I want ter remember it. Ray an' Chris an' Shaz. The team. The A Team. An' especially Bolly. An' Sam. I need ter remember them. Sam, the bloody ponce, is dead 'ere. Died in 2006. I've said that before, but I'm still tryin' ter fully understand 'im. I don't understand, prob'ly never will, not about Sam an' not about that world, but I don't mind, 'cos I know what's real an' what's not. I might be some idiot be'ind a desk 'ere, but I'm still the Gene Genie, 'cos I was back then, an' I'm 'angin' on ter that. All the memories.

"I've got ter go. They let me see Alex once a day, the doc'll be in in a minute an' if they find my Dictaphone they'll listen ter it. Bastards want ter monitor my state of mind. So know this much, Bolls. I will find a way back ter you. Whether it's you wakin' up 'ere, or- or somethin' else, I will find you. I will find a way back 'ome."

* * *

><p>"Didn't sleep again last night, ma'am?"<p>

"I keep hearing his voice. In my head. Telling me to be strong, to hold on. I know it's not real, but…"

Smiling sympathetically, Shaz Granger placed a cup of sweet tea on her DI's desk, rubbing her superior officer's shoulder as she made to head back to her desk.

"We choose what's real an' what's not, ma'am. The Guv's real enough, isn't 'e?"

_She has a point there._

Alex Drake sighed heavily, reaching out to clasp her mug with both hands, giving up on the half-written report on her desk. Ever since that cold, lonely morning when she had woken up curled around the duvet, Gene's half of the bed empty, he'd been talking to her, telling her to be strong, that he'd find her one day, he promised.

Back in 2008.

Alex no longer heard the doctors from 2008, no longer heard anything apart from Gene's voice. It seemed her mind had decided to simply blank it all out, for some reason, leaving her isolated, frozen in this blank world. Even Shaz was simply a distraction now, Ray and Chris taking the roles of resident annoyances. Ray was still smarting from those comments she'd thrown his way yesterday, especially the one about his manhood that had had the entire of CID sniggering behind their magazines. It would take Ray a long time to live them down, and she wasn't surprised when a look of venom came her way as Ray made his way to his desk and sat down. _No more than I deserve._

It seemed, since Gene had gone, that she'd taken on the role of resident insulter in the office. She was becoming more and more like him, even raising her hand to a suspect once, although Shaz had grabbed her and pulled her out of the room immediately to calm down. Nobody was quite the same anymore, but Alex barely knew herself now.

As Ray's look became more pointed- he was obviously fishing for an apology- Alex sighed, throwing the file into her pending tray and glugging the last of the tea down, heading for the kitchenette. Surely Shaz had some chocolate stashed away somewhere?

_If there was ever a time when a girl needed some chocolate, then goodness knows, it's now._

Being a detective, Alex quickly found out a bar of Galaxy and some milk to wash it down with; plumping down in the old chair that had become her escape since Gene's disappearance, Alex began to munch, closing her eyes as the chocolate melted over her tongue, taste buds tingling. _It's too long since I treated myself. Must do this more often._

"And how did that make you feel, Gene?"

_Gene!_

And then she saw him.

They were real, and yet she knew somehow that if she were to touch them, they would blink and vanish, like cloud. One was a young man, thick dark hair, holding a pad and wearing a sympathetic expression.

And one was Gene.

He looked younger, somehow, but incredibly pale and drawn; his stomach was heavily bandaged, a cannula in his right elbow. Definitely a modern cannula, attached to two IV drips. His eyes were fixed on the cannula, his left hand idly toying with it, jerking away every time the young man tried to remove his fingers.

"Gene, you'll give yourself an infection. Leave the cannula alone."

Alex expected Gene to ignore him, perhaps to even rip the cannula out, but he simply removed his fingers, his eyes not moving. The young man tried again, his face creased into concern.

"When you left this world that you dreamed. Were you disappointed? Glad to see the people back here?"

Gene eventually lifted his eyes, glaring at the young man. Alex smiled, a plenthora of memories rushing back to her at the sight of his familiar evils, the slit-eyed look that had London's finest having accidents in their underwear when applied with an interview room and the occasional boot.

"I didn't dream it. It was bloody _real. _OK? It was real. Yer not goin' ter tell me otherwise."

"You tell him, Gene," Alex whispered, reaching out blindly, her fingers inches from Gene's. "We're real. We're all real. Of course we are. He's talking nonsense. Never believe him, Gene, never believe him."

"But Gene, how could it have been real? Just because it featured real people doesn't mean it was real. Normal dreams feature real people, but you don't think they're real."

"Sam Tyler."

"What about him?"

"I never knew 'im in real life, yer know. Only 'ad a sketchy idea of what 'e looked like, never 'eard 'is voice, nothin'. Didn't know 'e died. Never 'eard anythin' more than 'is name an' never saw more than a brief glimpse on TV. An' then I'm stabbed an' go into a coma."

"Gene," Alex whispered tenderly, moving forwards.

"An' I know 'im. The Sam everyone else knows. The way 'e speaks, the way 'e acts. I've spoken ter 'is mam. I knew Sam. 'Ow could I 'ave done that unless it was real?"

The young man opened and closed his mouth, eyes wide.

"But Gene…"

"It was real," Gene said softly, his hand returning to the cannula. "Yer'll never convince me otherwise."

"That's it," Alex murmured, a beam on her mouth threatening to split her face in two. "You tell 'em, Gene, you show him-"

Her hand touched Gene's, and just for a second she felt rough skin on hers, his warmth, breathed in his scent. A mechanical beep echoed through the kitchenette.

And then he was gone, just as he had left her, vanished without a trace, leaving her frozen in a ridiculous charade in the middle of the kitchenette, arm outstretched, grinning, one finger curled round a phantom hand, caressing thin air as though it could morph back into Gene's palm given enough love.

And that was how Ray found her, heading in for a Garibaldi and a cup of tea.

Alex no longer cared. Gene was safe. That was what mattered.

* * *

><p>"I did warn you, Gene."<p>

"Ow!"

"It's all swollen. Let's have a look at your left elbow, see how the vein is there, hmm?"

Gene winced as the long-suffering cannula in his arm was carefully withdrawn, leaving red, angry skin behind, the legacy of his idle fiddling. He supposed it probably was his own fault it had got infected. He was the one who couldn't stop messing around with the little bastard.

"This'll be tight, Gene." The doctor wrapped a rubber strip round his arm, assessing the vein. Gene lost interest, choosing instead to return his thoughts to Alex, to what she was doing, _how_ she was doing.

Certainly he wasn't faring too well without her.

The doctors had commented that Gene had begun to develop habits since awakening from his two-week coma. Not just the cannula-fiddling, although that was probably one of the worse ones. Habits like getting up at three in the morning to record on his Dictaphone, the contents of which were still a mystery to the doctors, since he kept it locked in his cupboard. And like going outside at five in the morning. And not allowing himself enough sleep. And visiting Alex whenever he was allowed. And occasionally when he wasn't. Molly Drake denied letting him in when it was family only, but it was a pretty open secret that she would sneak a wheelchair into his room and take him through to see her mother.

He was constantly distracted, and that made him clumsy and uncommunicative. The counsellor was worried about Gene's adamance that his coma world was real, and suspected his withdrawn mood was simply that he didn't want to let that reality go. The doctors were worried he might try and find a way back there- the consequences of which, it went without saying, didn't bear thinking about. Especially not for little Maxy, or for Anne, who was already struggling with bringing up Max and balancing her own life and being there for Gene. Losing him would leave a hole in that family that could never be filled.

"Sharp scratch."

Gene ignored it. Sharp scratches didn't trouble him any more. In fact, pretty much nothing seemed to really make an impact. He didn't want to admit it, but he really was just pining for Alex, twenty-four seven.

"OK, connect that up and we're away. You going to eat something today, Gene? You can't live on IVs, you'll waste away."

He shook his head. The mere thought of food made him feel sick.

"You're not helping yourself get out of here, you know, Gene. We can't let you go until we're content that you'll be able to look after yourself, at least reasonably, and you're nowhere near that yet."

_Good. I can stay with Bolly._ All the medical stuff, he could deal with. He was still bloody sore anyway, moving hurt a lot of the time. He wasn't particularly fond of being in the hospital itself, but where else would he be if Bolly was here?

His release date was still indefinite. As far as he was concerned, his release date was whenever Alex's was.

As soon as the doctor was out, Gene picked up his Dictaphone again and started recording, scrubbing wearily at the black bags under his eyes.

"So yeah- where was I? Oh yeah. That bastard Chas Cale…"

* * *

><p>AN: I doubt this is my finest piece, but I have laboured long and hard over this and I hope it brings some enjoyment to the masses at least. (If the masses read my fanfiction, which I doubt.) Please remember to review- it would be much, much appreciated! Jazzola :D


	2. Tower Bridge

_Doctor's assessment_

_Patient: Eugene Hunt, 3C Westerchurch Road, London_

_Stabbed with a blade, wound approx. 11cm long. Severe lacerations to the intestine and stomach. Resuscitated on arrival, successfully stabilised in surgery, consequently in comatose state for two weeks._

_I am most worried about Mr Hunt's mental state. During his coma, he appeared to 'live' a life in the 70s and 80s, featuring another patient with whom he appears to have a romantic relationship, Alex Drake (also comatose). Physically, he is healing well- would be better if he ate and allowed himself sleep when he needs it. He is very stubborn! The counsellor has not been successful in telling Mr Hunt that his dream was not reality. He takes every opportunity to visit Ms Drake. I have noticed him recording on a Dictaphone, but he will not elaborate on what he is talking about._

_Mr Hunt is also completely disinterested in his rehabilitation, and has not eaten since waking up. I suspect he is missing something or someone, or trying mentally to adjust to what has happened but not accepting help doing so. The only people he talks to are his regular visitors and Ms Drake's daughter._

_Regarding your specific question, I do not think Mr Hunt is delusional, and scans have shown his brain was undamaged by the coma. I simply feel he is having difficulty realising what he has 'left behind' was not real. I am not sure he will open up to strangers, especially those from the medical profession- he seems to have a particular distrust of anyone to do with psychiatry. I would, however, be grateful if you could send Dr Hartmond over to assess Mr Hunt._

_Regards,_

_Dr Simmonds_

Gene snorted, throwing the letter back onto his bedside cabinet and lying carefully back, arms crossed over his chest. _Nothin' wrong with my mental state. _He was just glad they hadn't overheard his Dictaphone recording yesterday. He'd outlined, in detail, what he would do if Alex died. And it wasn't pleasant listening.

Anne would be in in a minute, and would tell the doctor if she found out he'd been sneaking around in his office. He might be sore, but that didn't mean that a little trip across the hallway wasn't a nice little excursion every so often. He'd heard Dr Simmonds asking other doctors if they'd taken Mr Hunt's file, and getting some very confused replies; he sniggered, filing the letter away with his other miscellaneous documents. Not all of them about him.

He didn't need her files to tell him that Alex was still comatose, improving, but far out of his reach. Molly was coping, juggling hospital visits to both him and Alex with her normal life and schoolwork; he'd had to cope with Evan's questions about him, but thankfully he seemed to think it was a positive thing, and treated Gene as an equal, enquiring into his relationship with Alex, his opinion of Molly, his health. After a little conversation, he seemed a decent man, but Gene was a little wary of revealing what he really knew about Evan White, and harboured more than a little resentment of him for letting Alex get shot. That said, he wasn't entirely sure what he would have done in the same situation either; Layton had been determined to shoot Alex, whether or not Evan co-operated with him. It was hard to take a moral stand over it.

And then, if Alex hadn't been shot, he would never have met her. And that was something he really didn't want to think about.

The door interrupted his musings, squeaking open to reveal a small curious head; Gene smiled, holding out a welcoming arm to his young godson as Max ran to the bed and catapulted himself up onto it, Anne following behind at a more sedate pace, a small smile on her face.

"Gene, your file's gone walkies again, according to your doctor. You wouldn't know where it is?"

He put on his most innocent expression, easing over to give Max space on the bed as he spoke.

"Nope. Checked behind the sofa?"

"Give, Gene."

"I don't 'ave it!"

"Pull the other one, it's got bells on. Hand it over- along with everything in it."

Gene pouted, reluctantly foraging in his cabinet and withdrawing the file to a peal of laughter from Max.

"You're setting a bad example, if Max has to have an operation for that lump on his foot I don't want him playing up in hospital because he's seen you doing it," Anne scolded, putting the file down on the table at the end of Gene's bed. "And when are you going to start eating? Is it seriously so hard to try a little light food? Your stomach will handle it, as will your intestines, as long as it's something easy to digest."

"I want you to come home, Uncle Gene!" Max whined, fastening his arms round Gene's neck and staring at him with large, soulful eyes. Gene rolled his eyes, gently easing Max off and tickling him to double him up, murmuring over his godson's shrieks.

"I'm just givin' it some time. Still bloody sore."

"Alright," Anne said, eyebrows knotted together. "Drink something?"

"You brought whisky?"

"Whisky?"

Gene frowned, leaning forwards.

"Whisky."

"You've never drunk whisky. You always drink beer. Christ, Gene, you sure your brain's alright? It's all change with you…"

Gene swallowed hard. _All change?_

"But…"

"I'll take a look in your flat, if you want. See if you have any whisky. But you're not drinking it until you're off medication. Besides, it's not the kindest thing after being stabbed, is it?"

"Good fer pain," Gene muttered, hurriedly turning back to Max as the patented Anne Glare came into use.

"I would've thought you of all people would be looking after their body a little. Your father was a prime example of what alcohol does to you."

_Christ. When yer wake up, Bolls, yer'll get on so well with Anne._

"Mm."

"Mr Hunt? Ah… your file. Thank you very much."

Gene couldn't help the sudden rush of blood to his cheeks as Dr Simmonds picked up his file, a knowing smile on his face at Gene's embarrassment. Max laughed, lying back on the pillows and closing his eyes, winding one of Gene's drip leads round his arm.

"I'm in hospital too! Now I get to stay with Uncle Gene!"

"Max, behave!" Anne scolded, but Gene was laughing despite himself, wincing as the movement flexed his sore stomach a little too much. The doctor raised his eyebrows.

"Could you leave those alone, Master Wilkinson? Thank you. Right, Mr Hunt, I have some news for you, and I want you to think carefully about your response."

"Spit it out."

"Sam Tyler's mother has been talking to us. She's coming down from Manchester to visit you- she wants to talk to you about her son."

He waited for a response, but Gene was struck dumb.

* * *

><p>"DI Drake, you simply cannot continue like this. DCI Hunt is gone and it doesn't look like he's coming back. You have to roll with the punches and get back to your work, like a professional- the department's falling apart without a steady hand at the helm."<p>

"I'm not the only one who's missing DCI Hunt, sir. I'm fairly confident everyone wants him back. And we don't want a new DCI, before you suggest it. We're coping."

"I would have to contest that last point. I am holding interviews for a new DCI next week. If you want to apply, you'd best let me know soon, and I can put your name in for consideration- otherwise, there will be a stranger taking over the department, and I doubt most of them would like that. You seem rather fond of each other in CID. Your decision, DI Drake- yours alone."

"I'll think about it. But nobody can replace DCI Hunt."

"Of that, DI Drake, I am quite sure. Quite sure."

* * *

><p>Ruth Tyler was still pretty, despite the years. She moved with a certain grace, and smiled a lot, but at the edges of her mouth the sorrow of her lost son still showed. Clear blue eyes beneath a soft white fringe gave her face a motherly, trustworthy air, and Gene found himself sitting up and smiling at her as soon as she entered his hospital room, Anne and Dr Simmonds beside his bed to listen in, despite Gene's protests.<p>

"Hello, Mr Hunt. I 'ope I find yer well."

"Gene, please. As well as I can be. Yerself?"

Ruth gave a tiny sigh, sitting down in her chair.

"I… I wonder some days. After Sam died…"

Gene nodded silently. _Sam, yer twat. Killin' yerself an' leavin' yer mother behind. What on Earth possessed yer?_

He knew the answer to that one. 1973 had awoken something in Sam that had long lain dormant, perhaps never even woken up, and as much as he had undoubtedly tried to stop it the past had drawn him back with relentless force, granting him seven years of life and love before ripping it away from him again. He couldn't help but wonder if he should have done something about it in this life, should have tried to convince Sam not to leave- but where would he be, in that case? Most likely dead. Sam had saved his life.

That and he hadn't even known Sam. He'd been in Manchester, DCI of a completely separate department, blissfully living his 2006 life without a clue as to Sam's suffering. And what could he have said? He hadn't known Sam then, hadn't yet travelled back in time. Or had and didn't know it… _Bloody 'ell. Stop thinkin'._

"I'm sorry."

"No, no, Gene. Don't be. I'm not. Sam chose ter fulfill his promise, whatever that might 'ave meant, an' I can be proud o' that, at least. But less o' that. You were in a coma, an'- an' yer met 'im? Sammy?"

Gene suddenly found it excruciatingly painful to look Ruth in the eye, choosing instead to duck away, studying the bedclothes intensely. _'Ow can I tell 'er that Sam… Sam's dead? Gone?_

"1973. 'E walked in thinkin' 'e ruled the roost. It was my CID, so I was DCI… I 'ad words with 'im. Threw 'im against a filin' cabinet, actually." A wry smile played round the edges of his mouth. "Whatever I did, it worked, 'cos 'e managed ter calm down. An' we went from there, really."

"Sam said somethin' about a train tunnel… d'yer remember that?"

Gene swallowed.

"Yeah. There was a cop-killer, Leslie Johns… we were workin' ter take 'im down, so I went in undercover ter try an' frame 'im. Only Sam gave it away, was wearin' a police radio, the twonk. It went off an' they realised, started shootin' at us, an' Sam ran off, sayin' 'e was goin' ter get back-up. Chris cracked an' ran after 'im, but Sam didn't 'ave any back-up, 'e'd been tricked. Johns followed, shot me, Chris an' Ray- they were my DC an' DS- an' 'e was about ter shoot me dead when Sam shot 'im instead. Saved all our lives. 'E was a bloody 'ero… or would've been, if the 'ole thing 'adn't actually been 'is fault."

Ruth smiled.

"Sam was good at that, puttin' right what 'e'd done wrong. Or 'e was when 'e was 'ere."

"Well. 'E patched things up with Ray, that says somethin' about 'is damage control. They were always at loggerheads when Sam first arrived."

"That's right. And Chris…"

"Chris looked up ter Sam, called 'im 'is boss, 'ung onter 'is every word. Was like the older brother Chris never 'ad."

Ruth sat back in her chair, now silent. Gene, feeling he was being tested for something, ducked his head, resisting the urge to throw back the covers and leave; Anne reached forwards, only for Ruth to burst out laughing, reaching out to take Gene's hand in both of hers and kiss the back of it, the huge smile still on her face.

"It was real. Sam told me all o' that. It was real. My Sammy… my Sammy lived after 'is death. My boy."

Anne could only sit and gape, staring at the two people in front of her, linked forever by an unreal world.

Dr Simmonds squawked in surprise and fell off his chair.

* * *

><p>The London drizzle was cold on his face, numbing his nose and dampening his eyelashes as he tilted his head up, feeling it run down his cheeks and into the collar of his dressing gown. Ruth Tyler had gone home a couple of hours ago, tears of joy running unchecked down her cheeks even after he told her how her son's story had ended. The fact that he had died a happy man had been an immeasurable comfort to her.<p>

Dr Simmonds had called the whole thing a disaster, insisting that it would reinforce Gene's delusion that his coma world was real. Anne had refrained from commenting, and Gene was glad of it; if she deemed him mad, removed him from her household and Max, he really would have nothing left in this world apart from the mother who would walk into his room, start crying and walk straight back out again.

She wouldn't leave the hospital, but wouldn't stay at her son's side. Gene couldn't understand her, simply let her have her own space and didn't make a fuss when she made one of her rare excursions into his room and left just as quickly. She'd make her mind up sometime.

"Gene, what are you doing? You're soaked through! You'll catch cold if you're not careful. Get inside."

Anne, standing at the entrance to his room, sheltered from the drizzle that had now become rain, gave him a disapproving look, holding out an arm.

"Gene, get in here. I'm not being funny, and I most certainly am not messing around. Lug your arse in here or I'll lug it in for you."

"What would you do, if I threw meself off London Bridge?"

The question was so quiet Anne wondered for a second if Gene had even spoken.

"Gene? Off… _London fucking Bridge?_"

And then the shock hit her like a brick wall and she screamed, lunging forwards, yanking Gene back into his room and slamming the door shut behind them, fumbling with the keys to lock it, turning to face Gene as soon as it was secure, pressing her trembling hands to her jeans. He was shivering, whether from cold or shock she didn't know.

"Get yourself out of those wet things. Now, Gene." Her voice held no sympathy.

He peeled his dressing gown off, discarding it over the back of a plastic chair. Fingering his pyjamas, he waited for Anne to leave the room, but she stood firm, hands on hips, daring him to challenge her authority.

He eased himself out of his pyjama top, his chest now only covered by a thin grey T-shirt, curled into himself. Defensive.

"And the rest. NOW!"

"No."

His eyes flashed dangerously as they met hers. Anne took in a deep breath.

The argument was no longer about Gene's dignity. It was about his freedom.

"This is what I'll do if you step within a hundred yards of Tower Bridge, Gene."

Anne marched forwards, pinned him against the wall by his arms; Gene tried to struggle, but to his disgust found she outranked him by far in strength. Her face was inches from his, her breath hot and angry on his lips. He had a flash of Alex in the same position, her mouth in that slow, seductive smile that seemed to be her speciality, and bit his lip, turning as far away as Anne would let him whilst the memory washed over him.

"You're threatening to commit suicide, Gene."

"No I'm not."

His voice shaking so much he wouldn't have known it was his.

"You are. Well, know this much. You kill yourself, and I will never forgive you. Ever. Because, God help me, I don't know what on Earth I would do without you."

She released his arms, pressed a rough kiss to his cold cheek, and left without another word.

Gene watched her leaving, ignoring his eyes blurring until he could no longer make out her shape. And then he blinked and let the tears fall, swiping them away viciously as soon as they had, hissing at himself. _The Manc Lion does not cry. Gene Hunt does not cry._

_ Am I Gene Hunt anymore?_

* * *

><p>AN: Poor old Gene, eh? Let's hope things will get better for him. I didn't get many reviews for the first chapter, so can we make up for that with loads for this one? Pretty please? OK, let's put this another way. Review or the radioactive ostriches will come and embarrass you in front of all your friends. I leave it to your fertile imaginations to think up how they'll do it. Jazzola :P


	3. Ray's Flat

He was left on his own for the rest of the day after Anne left, on Dr Simmonds' orders. So there was nobody to tell him to get out of his wet clothes, get under the covers to warm himself up, and nobody there to tell him not to go back out on the balcony as the rain got heavier and the day turned to a surprisingly cool night.

Gene didn't really mind being cold. He sat there until he was frozen to the bone, and felt that little bit closer to death, and that precious inch closer to Alex.

And out here, sitting on the icy balcony, shivering uncontrollably as he watched the cars go by down below, he could let his eyes flick up to the stars every so often and imagine her staring at the same sky, tracing the same constellations, maybe even trudging through the same rain that now soaked his pyjamas through, chilling his skin even further. He knew he should go back into his room, should go and get into a warm shower and ask someone to help him heat up, but the cold was drugging his brain, and every time he tried to move he fell over. His body didn't seem to want to do what he told it to, and so he gave up and closed his eyes, leaning his head back on the railing behind it. _Maybe when I wake up, I'll be with Bolly again._

It took him a while to realise that he could barely feel the cold, hardly registered his body shivering or the ache in his back from sitting so hunched over. He could barely feel anything, not from his body, not from this wilderness masquerading as a life; his heart and soul were elsewhere, just like Nelson used to sigh about when Sam was around. What was it he'd said? _"When you can feel, you're alive." _In that case, Gene was dead.

Maybe if he explained it to someone, to his mam, they'd understand.

_So. Get up. Easy does it…_

* * *

><p>She was left on her own for most of the day now. Ray had told the rest of the team, in hushed tones, about the scene in the kitchenette, and now the entire department seemed to be avoiding her like the plague; the only exception, Shaz, was now distant and distracted, the warmth of her personality damped down so that Alex felt like she was permanently cold, her flesh unwarmed by Gene's gentle, passionate touch.<p>

Luigi's no longer felt like home, and she no longer ate or drank there; her routine was to pick up some wine from her friendly landlord and head upstairs with it, perhaps a pizza or some pasta to go with it, and drink a single glass as slowly as she could, sipping so that she could just taste the sour tang on the tip of her tongue, just feel its coolness sliding down the top of her throat.

She didn't want to get drunk. Gene never appeared when she was drunk.

She lived for the rare occasions when she would hear his voice from the radio on the kitchen worktop, or glimpse his brilliant eyes on the television, or- most rare of all- simply see him, in front of her, talking with a stranger or with a little boy she assumed to be Max. Sometimes he would be silent, gazing into the distance, and her whole body would tingle with love for him, certain he was thinking of her.

Today, she felt especially cold. She was physically shivering as she collected a new bottle of wine and headed upstairs, wrapping her sleeved poncho tighter round herself until she was safely back in the warm. Electing not to take it off, she flopped onto the sofa with her boots still on, discarding the wine bottle on the floor beside her, closing her eyes and leaning back into the cushions. God, it was all so exhausting. Everything was exhausting. Perhaps if she closed her eyes, and kept them closed, she'd be back with her little girl, back with Gene…

_"We'll have to keep a closer eye on him."_

Her eyes shot open.

Nobody was there, no ghostly figure from the world she longed to return to. Heart booming in her ears, she craned her neck to see if the radio had come on, but it stood grim and silent on the kitchen worktop, oblivious to her pleading gaze.

_"He became very cold. We'll have to lock the door to the balcony."_

_ "He'd only pick the lock."_

_ "Police officers are always the worst patients. Come on, Gene, hang on in there. Don't you dare go back into a coma. Stay with us."_

"Gene?" Alex whispered, slowly moving forwards, her eyes hungrily roving the lounge for any sign of him, grabbing at the surfaces around her as though the wood and brick would morph into warm flesh at her touch.

She didn't turn as the kitchen began to glow. Hardly daring to believe it was real.

And then, unable to stop herself, she leapt round, a cry torn from her lips at the sight before her.

Gene was so still, so pale, hooked up to machines and drips, barely breathing. His scruffy blond hair was damp above a thick bandage, his lips tinged with blue; as she watched, a doctor placed an oxygen mask carefully over his face, taking a towel to dry his fringe.

He was in the middle of her kitchen, so close to her she could reach out and touch him.

"_Gene…_" she whispered, reaching out and then stopping, her fingers curling into themselves. If she touched him, he might disappear. She couldn't lose him. Not again.

_"Heart rate decreasing. We could be losing him."_

_ "Get Dr Simmonds in here, and a trauma team. Stupid man! What did you think you were doing?"_

Someone reached over, shaking Gene's shoulder as hard as they dared. He moaned lightly, turning his head away, so weak it made Alex's heart clench.

_"Never mind assigning the blame, he needs to warm up and fast. Where's Dr Simmonds?"_

_ "He's coming. Gene, can you hear me? Gene?"_

_ "DON'T LOSE HIM! DON'T LOSE MY BOY!"_

And then he was gone. Gone just as he'd appeared, gone just as he'd vanished, so abruptly Alex had to blink to adjust to the sudden gloom.

"Gene… oh, Gene…"

* * *

><p>Ray Carling hadn't had one of his better nights.<p>

The blonde bird he'd tried his luck with had turned out to be happily married, to a man several stone heavier than Ray, and less than an inch away from him. After Chris and Shaz had dragged him onto the street to avoid a fight breaking out, he'd decided to head home on his tod, taking his usual route down the alleyway behind the opposite corner shop only to step in a massive puddle of fresh vomit, courtesy of the extremely drunk man dressed in a gold skin-tight dress and sheer tights who promptly tried to kiss him.

After a brief scuffle, the man gave up and vomited on Ray as well. That had earnt him a night in the cells and a considerably lighter wallet, to pay for the dry cleaning.

When he'd finally arrived home, stinking and dog-tired, Ray had treated himself to a long bath, immersing himself in soap suds and scrubbing his back to _A Hard Day's Night _on the radio. Wondering idly if the Beatles had had him in mind when they'd written it, he reluctantly emerged from the tub, choosing his bed over resembling the prunes Shaz brought in for her lunch.

Wrapping himself in the towel pre-warmed on the radiator, Ray headed through to the lounge to find his pyjamas, with a vague recollection of having washed them sometime this week. Doubtless they'd be in the big pile all his other clothes were in, ready for ironing. Not that he ironed them, of course.

Whistling to himself, Ray began to delve into the pile, casting clothing into the four corners of the room in his search.

A faint noise behind him made him jump, swerve round. _Bloody kids downstairs, makin' noises at all times o' the day an' night, no care fer 'onest law-abidin' people 'oo want a bit o'… kip…_

His eyes widened to painful proportions as he choked on a breath in, falling sideways into the heap of clothing.

Gene Hunt, a very confused and pale Gene Hunt, was standing in his lounge, staring at him with wary eyes, one hand reaching out to grab at the back of the sofa, as though to ascertain if it were real or not.

"G- Guv?"

Gene jumped, held the sofa tighter, so tightly his knuckles shone bone-white. The overly-bright light illuminated his pale skin, his dampened hair, showed off the reality of him, surely too real to be imagined.

"Ray?"

The word had barely left his lips before he vanished, the sofa cushion slowly reflating in the shocked silence he left behind him.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was Ray's heart banging wildly in his chest.

And then, yelling loud enough to wake the dead, he launched himself across the room, staring down at the imprint on his sofa, four fingers and the tip of a thumb, the Guv's hand, Gene's bloody hand-

_I must be goin' mad._

It took Ray a long time to gather his wits enough to move through to the bedroom.

* * *

><p>"Gene became severely hypothermic, Mrs Hunt. He needs to warm up. Taking his arm out from under the blankets won't help."<p>

"But I want ter 'old 'is 'and! 'E's my son!"

Gene just heard the argument through an ugly haze of semi-consciousness, hovering somewhere between wakefulness and sleep; he could tell he was cold, could feel himself shivering gently, could tell that his mam was there and on the warpath. He could open his eyes, could show everyone he was awake, but oh God, he just wanted to sleep again, just wanted to close his eyes and be back there, back in the place he'd just left, a world where he could feel, had felt the rough sofa under his fingertips and smelt the stale curry in Ray's flat-

His eyes crashed open.

_Ray's flat?_

He struggled upright, scrabbling around the bed, unprepared for the doctors who promptly descended on him and forced him back under the covers again, someone shoving a thermometer in his ear as someone else attached something to his index finger, everyone talking at once, his Mam screaming for them to let her see him. Gene blinked woozily, just about managing to focus on someone's face, trying to make his lips co-operate to tell them that a marching band had decided to start playing in his head. Very bloody loudly.

"Welcome back," someone told him quietly, hooking up a drip to the cannula in his hand; the pain drained away. "You fell on your balcony and knocked yourself out, I'm sure you can feel how cold you became. We'll let your mother in, but the moment you fall asleep again she has to leave, OK?"

"Mhm," Gene managed, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth. He considered sitting up as his mother was ushered to his bedside, but his limbs were too heavy and he was just too comfortable where he was and so he only reached out a careful hand towards her, watching as Mrs Hunt dried her face on her sleeve and clutched his fingers, sitting on the edge of the chair beside his bed.

"Yer gave us such a scare," she whispered, resting her palm on his forehead. Gene managed half a smile, trying not to fall asleep too quickly.

"I'll be OK?"

"Of course. Don't worry, my love. Don't worry."

God, he was so sleepy. Maybe if he went back to sleep, he'd be back there again.

"Gene?"

No, the real world was demanding his attention again like an impatient toddler. Gene opened his eyes again, watching his mother silently as she struggled with her words, clutching his hand like a lifebelt.

"Mam?"

"The doctors said… said yer didn't remember our argument. See, I don't think it's fair ter keep yer in the dark over it. An' nor does Stu."

"Stu? What?"

Gene sat bolt upright, grabbing at his mother's hand; Dr Simmonds made a small noise of protest, but neither patient nor visitor paid him any attention.

"Stu. Yer brother, yer daft thing! The lad yer grew up with? Honestly!"

"But…"

"But?"

Gene shook his head. In his… in the other world, Stu had died a drug addict, Gene only able to watch helplessly as his brother destroyed himself and a little bit of Gene, a very precious and utterly irreplaceable bit, along with him.

"Doesn't matter."

"Did somethin' different 'appen in yer dream?"

"Wasn't a dream… 'e was dead there. Died of a drug overdose."

"Your imagination, Eugene Hunt! Stu'd never go near drugs, not after what 'appened when 'e was younger. Don't yer remember Doug Fisher? Stu was dabblin' in 'em, an' then Doug died of an overdose. Shocked Stu inter leavin' 'em alone. Never been near 'em since."

_Stu's still alive! _If he hadn't been so sore, Gene was sure he would've been dancing round the hospital room. Thank goodness he was ill, save everyone else the spectacle.

"Um… if yer say so."

"I do. 'E would be 'ere, but 'e decided ter wait until yer'd got all yer wits about yer. Looks like that'll be a while."

Gene's hackles went up. _Yeah, it will be. It'll be until Bolly wakes up._

"The argument." He didn't want them sidetracked any more, he wanted this out in the open now. He never argued with his mother; the years they'd spent defending each other at the hands of Gene's father had forged a much closer relationship than just mother and son.

"Yes. Yer scars."

"Eh?"

Mrs Hunt reached out and touched a scar on Gene's neck, tracing along it until her fingers found another, snaking up to Gene's cheek. Then she tilted his head to one side and ran her fingers over a scar on his cheekbone, another on his temple.

"D'yer remember? Yer got all of 'em in one sittin'. Spent a week in 'ospital afterwards. I wanted ter get rid o' the memories, but you said yer didn't care, yer'd got worse scars from bein' in the Force. I… I didn't want ter see what 'e did ter yer every time I saw yer face."

Her fingers now caressed his cheek, smoothing her thumb over the scars, as though her touch would heal them. Gene watched silently.

"I offered ter pay fer surgery, get rid of 'em. You said no, said yer couldn't take time off work, 'ated 'ospitals, didn't care about it. Said it wasn't worth the pain or time. An' then I said somethin' stupid. Said maybe it was why yer weren't married now, like Stu, because yer scared 'em off. I never meant it. I'm sorry."

"I did 'ave a bird. Alex."

"Yer never said."

"She wasn't exactly my bird then." He could sort out the logistics later. More important that he make peace with his mam first.

"You got angry- understandably. Said I should stop interferin', let yer live yer life. That yer were only thirty-six, there was time ter find someone else, I should keep my nose out. An' then I said 'ow proud I was of Stu, fer really makin' somethin' of 'is life an' bein' such a lovely 'usband… an' 'is kids. I was so stupid…"

Mrs Hunt wiped a tear from her cheek, loosening her hold on Gene's hand, seeing if he would snatch it away; he didn't, and she carried on, her voice wobbling as her fingers tightened once again on his.

"I understand yer gettin' so angry. I said some silly things, I just didn't want yer ter end up lost an' alone, without someone ter support yer, especially after yer left Manchester."

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry. I was wrong, I was just so worried about yer. Didn't want yer bein' lonely."

"Nothin' else?"

"Eh? No, that was it. That was the argument. Over me bein' an interferin' old biddy 'oo couldn't let yer go even when yer were approachin' forty."

_Approachin' forty. Last time I counted, I was forty-nine. I'm thirteen bloody years younger._

God, this was weird. Everything was weird. Gene exhaled deeply, leaning back into his pillows, watching his mam stroking his hand absent-mindedly, carefully avoiding the cannula.

"When yer better, yer need ter come up ter Manchester, my love. Refresh yer memory. Yeah? We'll try not ter overwhelm yer, yer need yer space, time. But Gene… never scare me again like yer did just now. I thought they were losin' yer. Please take more care."

"An' stop flittin' in an' out o' my room never decidin' whether yer stayin' or not." He didn't quite want to promise her what she'd asked. If the worst came to the worst… Alex had to come first. Especially as she'd be losing her child as well as her life.

Eileen Hunt lifted Gene's hand to her heart, and held it there until he fell asleep, and long after that.

* * *

><p>AN: After getting a U (too poor to grade) in my mock history exam last year, I have now been given an A (and a substantial one- one of the highest in my year!) for my history exam in January. Result is, I've been too busy celebrating to post anything- I went from being at the bottom of the scale to the top in just under a month, which by most people's reckoning is no small feat. I apologise for the delay- but hey, I've been enjoying being the centre of attention for once! Please remember to review, and I hope you enjoyed! Jazzola :D


	4. National Archives

Alex had made her decision. She had to stop this pointless moping, this whinging and lifelessness that had become her personality since Gene's disappearance. If he'd managed to find a way out of this world, so could she. And how hard could it be? He'd done it in his bloody sleep!

So instead of mooching around in her flat, Alex threw herself into her work. When the interviews for new DCI came up, her name was first in line, and the only one supported by CID to be their new boss. Her hard work and determination pretty much guaranteed her the job, and it came as no surprise when she was told to move into Gene's office- even though she didn't. That would have been sacrilege.

She remained at her desk, and Gene's office stood, a silent tribute to their missing officer, only disturbed at the end of the day, when Alex tiptoed in to run her fingers over the ornaments, wipe some dust off the desk, breathe in his musky, male smell, remember him.

And when she was off work, her only ambition was to find a way home. She puzzled at astronomical charts and historical occurrences for hours, wondering which one might be her ticket back; scoured the news and papers for any clue as to her future. Perhaps it was just that she was so busy, but Gene appeared more now, as if he appreciated her hard work to find him and had decided to allow her more glimpses of his world.

She was pleased to note that he was making progress, getting on well with his mother and Max, even if there seemed to be some tension with Anne when they were left alone together. Physically, he was still tender, any quick movements causing him pain, but the doctors seemed confident of his recovery, even if he still wasn't eating.

There were also glimpses of Molly. Her daughter was a regular visitor to Gene, and through Channel Hunt she would watch her baby girl, revelling in her laugh and her quick wit, unable to stop herself reaching out to her, stroking the air above her daughter's long smooth hair. Every second of the day, her chest ached with the need to be back with them.

Every time she glimpsed them, a tiny clip of the future, she would pray that it would be her future too.

* * *

><p>"Seriously? A <em>prostitute? <em>Gene…"

"Took us all by surprise, Molls. Could nearly see what she'd 'ad fer breakfast."

"She must've hated that."

"She got changed pretty bloody quickly."

Molly laughed, leaning her elbows on the bed below Gene's prone body, watching him silently as he shifted around, trying to get more comfortable. Gene Hunt was the kind of man her mother would never have wanted her to bring home- he swore, he drank and at some point in the past, according to his mother, he'd most certainly been a smoker. But despite all of it, he had a heart of gold, and from what he was saying, her mother had managed to fall for him despite the many surface faults she would have found it hard to look past.

"Did she ever mention me?"

"Talked about yer all the time. Felt like I knew yer before I'd ever met yer."

"Was she… was she going to bring you to meet me?"

"No doubt she was. As soon as it was gettin' serious, she let me know you'd be part o' the bargain. Young Molly Drake, the apple of 'er mother's eye."

Molly grinned, tracing the wrinkles in Gene's sheets with her index finger.

"Did she really say that?"

"All the time. All the time."

The beam on Molly's face grew.

"What, yer didn't think yer were?" Gene asked incredulously, staring at her. Molly shook her head silently, the smile still in place.

"Bloody 'ell. Yer couldn't be anythin' else! Yer such a precious thing ter yer mum. One of the few constants in 'er life, a brilliant young girl she adored 'til kingdom come. In 'er own words. If yer not a parent, yer can't understand, she said."

He'd been a parent, he'd found out. For one year, he'd been the parent- sort of- of Stu's son Jamie, who had needed someone else on hand after Stu's wife had developed CFS and Stu had had to work all hours to try and support his family. At the time, Gene had been taking a sabbatical, and so had all but moved in with them to care for Jamie, waiting hand and foot on the baby while Shona rested in bed, attempting to carry on working as a freelance writer and failing most of the time. It had been more like a work camp than a sabbatical, Gene had remembered, a wry smile on his face as he recalled days of little sleep and less relaxation, tending to Jamie and propping a frustrated Shona up emotionally. They'd been so grateful they'd bought his Audi, an A3 2.0 S-Line, replacing his all but completely destroyed Ford Taurus. The poor thing had broken down on its way to the scrapyard.

As soon as Shona was better he'd transferred from Manchester, exhausted and seeking new challenges from the police force. And the story went from there.

"Gene?"

_Not the time fer daydreamin'. Yer got visitors, _the little voice in his head reminded him.

"Yeah?"

"Evan was talking about you yesterday. Said he thinks you're alright."

"Does 'e?"

"You don't like him?"

"Let's put it this way, Molls. Yer mum might not be so fond of 'im when she wakes up."

"Why?"

"He… did somethin' a bit stupid, the day yer mum was shot. Not really related ter the shootin'." _Can't tell 'er the truth yet. Wait fer Bolls ter wake up. _"Course, she might 'ave forgotten, but at the same time, I'm tryin' not ter jeopardise anythin'. We'll 'ave ter see."

Molly nodded speculatively, tilting her head to one side, quietly studying Gene.

"He said something else too."

"Oh?"

"Evan said he knew a police officer with your name, ages ago, in the Eighties. Said you looked similar, spoke in the same kind of way. Were you related?"

_Evan knew…_

_In the Eighties._

_ The Eighties._

"I thought it was quite cool. Was he your dad or something?"

Molly waited for an answer, looking up at Gene to prompt him when none came.

Gene was frozen in position, his eyes almost painfully wide, one hand clenched on the duvet as though it were the only thing keeping him in this world.

"Gene? Gene! Gene, snap out of it! Doctor!"

Molly started shrieking, shaking Gene's shoulder, slapping his face as Dr Simmonds barrelled in, face dark with carefully-controlled panic, and eased her away from the bed, forcing Gene's hand off the duvet and into his young visitor's.

"Gene, come back to us. It's alright, you're safe. What did you say to him, Molly?"

"My godfather knew a police officer with his name in the Eighties. I asked if they were related and he went all weird on me- I'm sorry, I swear I didn't think this would happen!"

"It's alright, Molly. Probably just the reference to the Eighties. Gene… there. Would you like Molly to leave?"

"No… need ter…"

Gene's heard was swirling with shock, everything confused, as though he'd been doped up with anaesthetic; Dr Simmonds gently pushed Molly out of the door, pulling the sheets up over Gene's chest as he started to shudder.

"Cold?"

He wasn't. Gene was trembling because, suddenly, he was excited. He now had a hope- a real hope- that he could find out the truth about all this, this coma, this supposed dream.

Maybe it was right under his nose, right here in London.

In the police records.

* * *

><p>Ten o'clock and Alex was heading upstairs from Luigi's with a fresh bottle of wine, having spilt the last one all over the floor of her lounge when Molly's voice had come out of nowhere the previous night. She seemed to be living in a constantly over-alert state, always looking around for the slightest hint of Gene or Molly, someone from the future, something, anything. The other day she'd glimpsed a Ford Focus driving past the police station, the day before had heard a snatch of 'I Predict A Riot' on the radio. Her two worlds appeared to be merging, just a little bit, which only made her work harder than ever to get home, which in turn only made her even more alert and jumpy.<p>

Her flat, when she opened the door, was quiet and dark, as always; she sighed, dumping her jacket on the hook next to Gene's Crombie coat and pausing for a second to deeply inhale its scent, the scratchy wool oddly reassuring on her skin. Flicking the TV on, Alex began to make some cheese on toast, putting it under the grill and heading through to the bedroom to change into something more comfortable than her painted-on jeans and sheer blouse.

Gene was sitting on her bed, tugging on his shirt, as she opened the door.

"Gene…" she whispered, moving closer, eyes wide. Something about his hurried movements, the absence of medical equipment and the frantic swerving of his eyes, made her uneasy; she stood watching him, instinctively reaching out to do his buttons up and stopping with her hands inches from him as he turned his attention to them instead, slinging a thick jacket on and giving the hospital room one last glance before standing up, heading for the door. Heading past her into the kitchen.

"Gene! Come back!"

By the time she turned, he was gone.

The front door slammed in the sudden ringing silence.

* * *

><p>The wind bit into Gene's cold cheeks as he hurried out of the hospital car park, hands thrust into his pockets, head down. His fitness had taken quite a knock, having to be restored one step at a time, but Gene wouldn't let himself down now, not after the huge clue Molly had given him.<p>

He wondered abstractly whether Anne would call the police. Whether they'd be after him.

He hailed a taxi to take him to the National Archives in Kew, fingering his warrant card as he clambered into the back and the taxi sluggishly joined the afternoon traffic, leaning his head against the window wearily and watching his breath steam up the glass.

"You look pale," the taxi driver said, overtaking a bus expertly. Gene huffed half a smile.

"Freezin' out there."

"Would've thought you Northern sorts were used to it," the driver chuckled, jerking his car into gear. Gene rolled his eyes. _Everyone's a bloody comedian. _Still, took his mind off his current situation.

His BlackBerry rang suddenly, vibrating in his jacket pocket; Gene slid it out, staring at the unrecognised number on the screen, stroking his thumb over the screen absently as he debated whether to answer. The driver's eyes were on him in the rear view mirror.

"Answer it, then."

"Not sure if it's someone I want ter talk to."

"Then turn the bastard off."

_'E's got a point._

Gene declined the call, shutting the phone straight down, watching the screen intently as it turned from grey to black, the screen smudged by his sweaty hand. The custom tone he'd programmed in for Anne rang just as it turned off.

It took a surprisingly short time to get to Kew, drizzle now framing the glass of the National Archives as Gene got out and coughed up the fare; the driver knocked off a fiver as soon as he saw Gene's almost empty wallet, shaking his head and waving his hand carelessly as Gene offered it up.

"You get yourself a coffee to warm you up. I'm not that much of a bastard to nick a man's last fiver."

He drove off, leaving Gene alone and shivering outside the National Archives, feeling like a child outside their grandparents' house, scolded and ordered into their best behaviour.

"Metropolitan Police archives please, 1980 onwards," he told the young woman at the desk, flashing his warrant card as he brushed the drizzle from his hair. She glanced at it, nodding as soon as she saw the silver badge beside Gene's identification card; Gene quickly covered his name with his thumb.

"Anyone in particular you're looking for?"

"Erm… Eugene Hunt. Joined in 1980. Transferred from GMP."

"And your name, sir?"

_Shit._

"Um… Stuart Drake."

It seemed to do it. The young woman smiled at him and stood up, taking a thick bunch of keys from a locked cabinet behind the desk. Her name badge caught the light for a second, revealing the engraving of 'Lexi'; Gene swallowed hard, trying not to think of how much his own Alex would disapprove of him doing this.

"This way, Mr Drake."

And then they were off, Lexi unlocking doors, Gene trailing childishly after her.

Fawn files and papers surrounded the pair as they headed down an aisle of records, Lexi looking round, Gene keeping his gaze fixed on the floor; somewhere in here, he thought, could be one of the answers to this mystery, and the knowledge only made him even more nervous, in here under a false name when by rights he should still be in hospital. He hoped that nobody was too worried about him, but couldn't kid himself into thinking that they wouldn't be.

"Right. Hince, Hinton, Hubert…"

Lexi started flipping through the files, humming idly under her breath; Gene tried not to watch her hands, instead staring up at the ceiling, swallowing hard to try and get rid of the lump in his throat.

And then the rustling of paper stopped, and he looked back at her, his eyes narrowing at the lack of a file in her hands.

"I'm sorry, Mr Drake, there's no Hunt filed here."

Gene felt like his stomach had done a backflip. No record?

"Joined in July 1980. 'E must be 'ere. Must be."

"Well, he's not. One second, Mr Drake."

Lexi held her bunch of keys up, pressing a button on the fob. A red light by the entrance turned on.

"What's your real name, sir?"

"Eh?"

_What? Shit!_

Lexi looked pityingly at him, slotting the files back in and turning to face him fully.

"Your real name."

_Shit. Shit double shit. Shit!_

Gene stared for a second longer, and then bolted for the entrance, skidding to a halt as two security guards blocked his way; his stomach surged with pain, and he couldn't help doubling up, gasping as the guards grabbed his arms and began escorting him out, moaning at the horribly warm sensation of blood trickling down his side. Lexi caught up, ferreting in his jacket for the warrant card, holding it up to the light and opening the flap, a frown on her face.

"Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt. This is a valid warrant card… so why did you lie about your name, DCI Hunt? And why would you be looking for someone of the same name in 1980?"

The guards dumped Gene into a chair, taking no care not to be rough; he bit back a groan of pain, clamping his hand over his side where he was sure he was bleeding, trying to disguise it as a stitch from running.

"Perhaps you lied because you're supposed to be in hospital. After being stabbed. Is that true, DCI Hunt?"

Backed into a corner, Gene suddenly didn't have the strength to do anything but nod.

"I'm sorry, DCI Hunt. It was in the news, I thought I recognised you but it didn't click until the record wasn't there. I'll call the Royal London and tell them where you are. I'm sure they can arrange some transport for you."

"I'll make my own way back."

"I can't let you leave this building until I know you're safe. The guards will restrain you if you try to leave. Keep him there, boys, I'll get on the blower and let you know when someone's coming to pick him up."

The two guards nodded, both turning their intense gazes back to Gene as Lexi headed off to her desk, flipping through the phone book to find the Royal London's number.

Gene rested his head back on the wall, ignoring the curious gazes of the people around him, and exhaled one long, deep breath, letting the failure fill him, suffocate him, cloud his vision with defeat.

Eugene Hunt had been nine in 1980.

The question Molly had given him remained unanswered.

* * *

><p>AN: Reviews mean love, as I don't seem to be getting many of them. Come on, people, please? Just one teensy weensy little review? Please? *on knees begging* Now you have to review. This floor's wood and my knees are hurting. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed. Jazzola :D


	5. Hunts Bank

Dr Simmonds arrived a little while after Lexi's phone call, out of breath and flustered, to personally accompany his errant patient back to the Royal London.

Gene's great escape was over.

Anne and Max, he told Gene as he helped him to his feet and wrapped his jacket tighter round him, were waiting in the ambulance car outside, having raised the alarm when they'd found his room vacant. The police had been about to launch a London-wide search for him; his name had already been radioed out to several patrol cars in the area around the hospital. His photo would have been broadcast on the national news had the call from the National Archives not come through.

"Anne's been really worried, she thought you were in danger but she wouldn't tell me why," he said as he lead Gene out by the elbow, clinging tighter as Gene tried to throw him off. "There'll have to be extra security on your room now, you understand? You don't have the legal right to refuse treatment yet."

_Would I 'ave the legal right ter knee yer in the gonads, yer prick? Leadin' me out like a bloody criminal._

Anne wrapped him in a blanket as soon as he got in beside her, pulling him into a hug so massive he wondered if he'd suffocate; he tried in vain to fend her off, giving up completely when an overjoyed Max joined in, squealing nine to the dozen. The look in Anne's eyes told him there would be words later, and probably hell to pay into the bargain, but for the time being she clasped his hand in hers behind Max's back, staring out of the window, the street lamps lighting up the fragments of tear tracks on her cheeks as they passed them.

She hadn't told the doctor he was suicidal. That had to mean something.

He was too tired to figure it out tonight, still to take in the full impact of his visit to the National Archives. The lack of a file had to be significant somehow, but in his current state Gene just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. He'd managed two weeks before, after all.

Gene let his head fall back onto the headrest, ignoring Dr Simmonds talking softly to Anne; Max cuddled into his side, and he put his spare arm on his godson's shoulder, shifting over to mirror his position, eyes closed.

By the time the car reached the Royal London, both of them were fast asleep, curled together like a couple of sleepy cats, Gene's hand clenched on Max's coat as though he never wanted to let the little boy go.

* * *

><p><em>The River Irwell never looked this beautiful in real life, he was sure. It sparkled in the late afternoon sun, clear of debris and detritus, its smoothly undulating sheen unbroken save for the slowly rotating wheels of the Cortina, a turtle on its back in the blinding sunshine.<em>

_ He wasn't conscious of running towards it, barely even registered his feet leaving the ground of the ironically-named Hunts Bank as he leapt in to save his colleague; he could feel Sam's presence within the car, as though he were a radio tuned to Sam's frequency, could feel the desperation surging from his best friend as he kicked and kicked, scrabbling through the murky water, his fingertips brushing the handle of the door again and again, never grasping it, always slipping away before he could get any closer-_

_ "Gene! Gene! Help me, Gene, please! Help me!"_

_ He'd never heard this quality of wretched terror in Sam's voice before, and just that tore him apart from within; he doubled his efforts, kicking harder and harder, screaming Sam's name as hands rose from the mulch of the riverbed and began dragging him away, holding him down, drowning him here in the filthy darkness with Sam, and he no longer cared, could not feel any more, simply let them hold him down and went limp, accepting death, down here with Sam, with the despairing screams that were fading along with him…_

_ "Sam!"_

"SAM!"

"Gene, it's OK. I've got you. Christ, Gene, wake up, stop trying to kick me!"

He snapped awake in Anne's arms, bathed in sweat, the sheets wrapped round his legs, trembling from head to foot. Anne held him and soothed him like she would her own child, and though Gene tried to wriggle away from her she held him firmly and told him to stop fidgeting in such a strict voice he obeyed her.

The instant he rested his head against her shoulder, Anne began whimpering, pressing her lips together to hold the sobs inside.

"Gene… oh Christ, Gene…"

"What? Anne?"

Anne looked down at him, her eyelashes stuck together with tears; cold fear gripped Gene's heart.

"Anne? 'As somethin' 'appened?"

"No… no."

"You 'aven't told the doc about-"

"No, Gene. I just… oh God, Gene. Oh God. Why can't you just get better? You've been ill for so long… I want my Gene back." She paused, sniffling, one hand tentatively stroking Gene's hair as the other clung to him like a frightened infant. "You remember last year's Christmas party, when you sang Auld Lang Syne standing on the coffee table and ended up spilling your beer all over yourself? And then you started licking your jumper because you didn't want to waste the beer, and when I pulled it off over your head you called me a "sissy, soft, girly nancy"? And when Max woke you up in the morning you still took him to the park even though you nearly threw up on the way because you'd only stopped drinking three hours before. You were shattered Christmas Day, I took a photo of you when you'd had three portions of everything and fell asleep on my shoulder while Max was watching _Chicken Run_. That's my Gene."

The tears were falling thick and fast now, pouring onto his pyjama top as Anne spoke; he lifted a hand to wipe them away, brushing his drip out of the way impatiently as Anne sniffed, drawing her sleeve across her face.

"And then on Boxing Day you insisted on taking Max out for a surprise visit to the bowling alley, and it turned into a competition between us two. You won by about three points and I had to treat you to a beer on the way home, that was the first time I ever drove the Audi and you were the worst bloody backseat driver I've ever encountered. I nearly punched you. And then you carried Max all the way up the stairs and put him to bed, and because you were still tired from Christmas Eve I came in and found you'd fallen asleep reading him a bedtime story. _That's _my Gene. The man who used to text me a joke to wake me up in the morning when my alarm clock broke, who let Max play with his warrant card, who propped me up when I needed him because Max didn't have a dad. You caught him for me. Found him."

_Caught him? _But Gene had no time to dwell on Anne's speech. She was clinging to him now, sobbing freely into his hair as he tried to reassure her, murmuring that he remembered those things, he was still the same, he was, he _was_, nothing had changed, not for him.

"But you don't remember so much," Anne whispered, her hand clenching on his. "You don't understand, Gene. It's like- it's like I don't know who you are any more. You act like Gene, you speak like Gene, but when you look at me, when you really look at me, your eyes- they're so far away. So far away."

She held him closer, her tears running down his neck, warm on his clammy skin. Gene bowed his head, his chest aching, unable to say anything to comfort her, knowing what she was saying was true, he would be a long way away until Alex was with him again.

Anne held him and sobbed into his hair, whispering mingled endearments and obscenities onto his scalp as Gene stared sightlessly past her shoulder, gazing into the past once again.

* * *

><p>Alex walked into CID the next morning to be presented with two puppies gambolling across the black and white tiles, one darting into the kitchenette with Ray's shoe in its mouth and the said Sergeant in hot pursuit, the other cleaning itself on Chris' desk as Chris watched with an expression of mild distaste on his face. Standing in the doorway, she surveyed the only two members of her team to have made it into work on time, raising her eyebrows as Chris dumped the puppy on the floor and realised she was there when it ran over to sniff her shoes.<p>

"Chris?"

"Found 'em at the side o' the road, ma'am, the other two were dead. Couldn't leave 'em there," Chris protested, hurriedly collecting the puppy now tugging at Alex's jeans with its teeth. Alex shook her head, a telling smile on her face.

"As long as you can keep them under control, Chris, then I'm fine with them. They look like German Shepherds to me, you could hand them over to the Dog Division when they're a bit older, see if they'd like them."

"Police dogs!" Chris grinned, stroking his puppy. "Great idea, ma'am."

Alex couldn't help but return the grin, indulgently. _Well, he's not lacking in enthusiasm, I'll give him that._

A clatter and a yelp from the kitchenette told the rest of the room that Ray had collared his puppy; Alex hurried over to help, finding him engaged in a tug-of-war with the animal over his shoe, what used to be the teapot in several pieces on the floor. Ray was growling at the little puppy, his face ruddy with exertion; the dog's tail was wagging so hard it was a blur, clearly having a whale of a time with this new playmate.

"Ray, stop growling at it, it thinks you're playing along and it won't let go of the shoe if you make it into a game. Put your finger in its mouth and stroke the top of its mouth, Ray. That'll make it let go. At the moment, it thinks your shoe is fair game."

"Ruddy Chris bringin' stray mutts inter CID! An' I'm not puttin' my finger in that little bugger's mouth. I don't 'ave a bloody death wish."

Alex sighed dramatically, dropping to her haunches beside the puppy and carefully inserting one finger into its mouth, rubbing the soft inside of the mouth. It worked instantly, the puppy whining before letting go of Ray's shoe, leaving the DS to topple over and end up on his rear beside the sink.

"Have no fear with puppies, their bark is worse than their bite. Unless you're a shoe," Alex pointed out, nodding to the puncture marks Ray's shoe now sported as she moved over to wash her hands in the sink. Ray sighed, glaring at the puppy as it began eagerly licking his jacket, pawing at his pocket.

"It can smell my ruddy Marathon!"

"Eat it quick, chocolate's toxic for dogs," Alex advised, picking the puppy up bodily and carrying it back through into CID, depositing it with its sibling in the cardboard box labelled 'CONTENTS OF A PRINCESS' that Chris had scrounged from the evidence room.

"I'll clear up the teapot. Ray, you get on with some work, Chris, keep an eye on the puppies until you know that box'll contain them. Where do the cleaners keep their dustpan and brush?"

"They don't." Chris picked up what used to be a dustpan, but was now chewed to a handle stub. One of the puppies growled proudly.

"Oh, great… OK, I'll tidy up by hand. Just be prepared to be stepping on bits of china for the rest of the week."

Rolling her eyes, Alex retreated back into the kitchenette, just in time to miss Chris groaning loudly as one of the puppies did a wee in the cardboard box.

"Honestly, Chris, you're like a little child," she muttered to herself, bending to start picking the bits of teapot up, carefully scrutinising the floor for any loose shards. One bit had found its way into a crevice under the counter; Alex wormed her fingers into the gap, grasping the shard of china, growling under her breath as it refused to come free.

"Bloody thing!"

In her irritation, Alex pulled on the sharp side of the china, hissing with pain as it sliced into her finger.

"Ah! Bloody hell…"

Nursing her finger, Alex stood up, making to run it under the cold tap. _Please say there isn't much blood. I don't like blood._

She looked down, her uninjured hand grasping her wrist as she stepped towards the sink.

Her heart nearly stopped.

Blood was oozing from the cut, enough to stain the whole of her finger. But it wasn't red.

The blood now running down her hand and into the crevices of her palm was bright blue, shining on her skin in the brash light of the kitchenette, dyeing her sleeve navy blue as it began seeping into the fibres.

_Blue blood… blue blood means… means I'm dead…_

* * *

><p>Gene, exhausted, slept through the night and most of the next morning, not even setting his alarm for five as he usually did; Anne refused to leave his side, putting up camp beds for herself and Max in his room as Gene slumbered on, the ECG machine Dr Simmonds had insisted on bleeping reassuringly by his side. She didn't sleep a wink, leaning on one elbow, watching the expressions flickering over Gene's face as he tossed and turned through dreams, soothing him once or twice when he became overly agitated. Dr Simmonds peered in every half an hour to check everything was still in order, changing Gene's drip over when it emptied, talking with Anne in a low voice as the menfolk slept on together, Max curled round Gene's chest, having woken up from a nightmare and cuddled up to his Uncle Gene to get back to sleep.<p>

When Gene eventually woke, woozy and a little disorientated for the overlong sleep, the ward was bustling with activity, most of it seemingly centred on Alex's room; concerned, he made to get up, only for Dr Simmonds to pull him back down again by the shoulders, Anne hurriedly closing the door. Max, cuddled up on Gene's leg, didn't stir.

"What's 'appenin'? Alex…"

"Alex has overcome the infection, Gene. It's great news. We just need to keep an extra-special eye on her for twenty-four hours, so we're moving a couple of new machines in. I believe someone from the Met is visiting her, they'll be in to talk to you when they're done. Their job is to assess the pair of you. What they'll make of your escapades yesterday, I don't know."

Gene gritted his teeth.

"Just wanted ter find somethin' out." _Like whether Evan White remembers the DCI Gene Hunt of the 1980s. But you wouldn't believe me fer a second, would yer? You an' yer 'it was all a dream' bullshit._

"Whether there was a Eugene Hunt in the Met in 1980. Lexi told me about it. She's my niece."

_Just my bloody luck._ Gene shrugged, wincing as it hurt his still-tender stomach.

"Just makin' sure."

"And there wasn't. What does that tell you about your dream, Gene?"

_That it was some other world. But somehow, Evan remembers it too. Christ, this is bloody confusin'. Perhaps if I just play along…_

"That it wasn't real," Gene muttered, studying his hands for something to do. His right one had a new cannula in it; he resolved to have the bastard out by three o'clock.

"That's right, Gene." Dr Simmonds looked relieved, perching on a visitors' chair next to Gene's bed; Anne rolled her eyes on the other side of the room.

"What's not real?" Max asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes on Gene's blankets; Gene gave a little sigh, pulling his godson up to rest on his chest, letting the Gene Genie façade slip a little as he hugged the boy, brushing the drips and monitor wires out of the way impatiently.

"Doesn't matter, Maxy. 'Ere, don't you need ter be at school? Anne?"

"It's Saturday, Gene."

"Oh." _Bugger. I really am out of it._

"No school on Saturdays, Uncle Gene," Max giggled, reaching up to tweak Gene's nose. Gene gently caught his hand, eyes absent as he wriggled over to give Max space on his pillows, too deep in thought to notice the door opening and the man coming in, crossing over to the bed.

"You here to assess Gene?" Dr Simmonds asked, standing up.

The familiar voice brought Gene out of his musings; he looked up, glancing round at Dr Simmonds and then at the man now sitting down beside him.

His mouth fell open.

"Shaz?"

* * *

><p>AN: Yes, I really am that mean. Please remember to review, it would make my day! Jazzola :D


	6. Fenchurch

_"Shaz?"_

The 'man' who had just entered the room stopped dead a foot away from the bed, eyes wide with shock, her glossy, grey-streaked hair swinging into her eyes. Gene grasped the bars of the bed, studying her face intently, his heart banging in his throat with each similarity: the curve of the plump lips, the thick dark eyelashes, the chocolate irises sparkling with humour and vigour…

"Nobody's called me Shaz for years, not since I was a PC," Shaz said, and although her voice was aged and slightly deeper it was unmistakeably Shaz's gentle tones, the Billericay accent shining through and giving Gene a bizarre urge to cry. "Did you know me then, sir? You couldn't 'ave, I've never been to Manchester, an' besides, you're in yer thirties an' I'm the wrong side of fifty now."

_The wrong side of fifty. I knew yer when you were in yer twenties. Wait… if Shaz is 'ere…_

"Look, luv, this might sound a bit of a stupid question, but before we begin, did yer ever go out with a bloke named Chris? In the Eighties? Blond 'ighlights, bit of a div?"

Shaz frowned, sliding into the seat Anne drew out for her.

"Mr Hunt, Chris is my 'usband. We got married in 1984."

"Oh."

_Looks like yer 'eld onter Shaz then, Chris. Nice one._

_ Wait… if she's married Chris…_

"Bloody 'ell!"

"Mr Hunt?"

"So you exist… and Chris exists… what about Ray? Yer remember Ray? Know 'im? Yer DS back in 1981?

Shaz was beginning to look quite disturbed now, the line between her eyebrows deepening; Anne moved forwards, shaking Gene's arm gently.

"Gene, what are you-"

"I told yer, I _told _yer it was real!" Gene announced triumphantly, shaking Anne off impatiently, one finger pointed at Shaz as everyone else in the room stared at him like he'd just grown a second head. "Shaz is real, Chris is real, Ray is real, Bolly is real- 'oo was yer DCI in 1981, Shaz? D'yer remember 'im?"

"Yeah," Shaz said, scooting back a little in her chair. "DCI Garrett. 'E was our DCI up until 1990."

Gene's hand dropped onto the duvet, unheeded, as he stared at Shaz, jaw slack.

"But… but…"

"Gene," Dr Simmonds said gently, gently placing his hand on Gene's forearm, tightening his grip as Gene turned his head slowly to look at him, looking like a man whose world was crumbling around him. "You see? It wasn't real. It was just a dream."

Anne moved forwards to pull her friend into a hug, rubbing his back gently, but Gene remained staring sightlessly over the other side of the room, oblivious to Max's squirming by his hip, Dr Simmonds' and Shaz's quiet conferring as they moved away from the bed and towards the door. He let them. He didn't want to see Shaz again for a long time, as long as possible, and yet he didn't know why, when she was the last tenuous link to whatever past he might have had in the 80s.

"I've got to take Max home, Gene. Are you going to be OK on your own?"

"The nurses'll be able to peek in on Gene, Ms Wilkinson. You head on home."

"Thanks. Behave, Gene, and I'll be back this evening, yeah? Please don't do anything stupid."

Far too late.

* * *

><p>"What d'you reckon, ma'am?"<p>

"Well, to be honest, Shaz, if Galloway was responsible for the robbery, he'd have been incredibly stupid to have left his trademark lying around for any copper to stumble over, wouldn't he? Especially as it was his brother who reported it to the police. It doesn't fit his MO, especially as he was clever enough to go to uni… No, I think this is either a copycat crime or someone trying to frame Galloway for wronging them somehow… any enemies?"

This, Alex thought as Shaz nodded and sped off to locate the long list of people who disliked Tony Galloway, was what was going to keep her alive if she was dying in her world. Police work, real police work, the kind that Gene would be proud of, interviewing snouts and gathering databases and storming off to make arrests with Ray and Chris at her side, a well-oiled and efficient team under her leadership, perhaps more so than under Gene's, she thought. But then, the team may have been efficient, but what it wasn't was happy.

Not without their Guv.

Ray had said something about seeing Gene last night in the pub, after Alex had plied him with beers to make up for breaking his toe with her stiletto heel arresting Sean Thomas the day before; it hadn't made much sense, but from what she'd gathered, Gene had appeared in Ray's lounge and vanished as soon as he'd said Ray's name. In two minds over whether to believe him, Alex had eventually told him it was a dream and sent him home in a taxi, wondering all the while whether Gene had found his way back to this world just for a split second, had somehow crossed the gap between them whilst maintaining his life in the other world. Sam hadn't managed it, she hadn't managed it… so what had happened with him?

It could, of course, have been an alcohol-sodden dream, brought on by grief and loneliness and thus creating a hint of companionship for Ray after the loss of his Guv. She'd done the same thing often enough after her parents' death, running downstairs to tell Evan that she'd seen Mummy and Daddy in the spare bedroom and each time receiving the same sad smile as he bent to her height and gently told her that Mummy and Daddy were gone, and that she was seeing things, and that it was sad but they just had to move on with life and she would be much better at doing that if she stopped seeing her parents around the house. She couldn't really remember when it'd stopped, but supposed she'd simply grown out of it at some point. Ray was certainly immature enough, she thought with a smirk as the tail-lights of the taxi disappeared out of view, leaving her standing cold and alone outside Luigi's as thunder rumbled nearby and the mutter of music and laughter behind her continued, steady and strangely reassuring. Only a week ago she'd found him doodling willies on a mugging victim's statement, and had had to spend a good twenty minutes rubbing them all out. Ray had been on tea duty for three days before she'd forgiven him.

Raising her face to the sky, Alex let herself lean against the lamp-post outside Luigi's, idly tracing patterns on the metal as the first raindrop fell onto her face. Gene was out there somewhere, she was sure of it. Gene and Molly were out there and together, and she would never give up hope of finding them, could never, because without her Gene would not cope and Molly would grow up motherless, the cycle continuing, and entirely her fault.

She was stumbling in the dark, yes, but there had to be something, some hint that she could hone in on and decide that it was the way home. She could enjoy her time here, by all means- she'd never return to the 80s, hopefully, so she wanted to make the most of it- but that could not affect her mission.

"You there, Gene?" she whispered to the heavens, staring up at the smattering of stars she could see through the sodium lighting, eyes flitting from one to another as a dark cloud crawled past. "Molly? Don't give up on me. Don't ever give up on me. I'm thinking of you both, you know that, I'm always thinking of you. I love you, and I won't ever forget you, not for a single tiny mome-"

What Alex Drake would have said was obliterated by the rod of lightning that smashed into the lamp-post, and the burst of light and pain behind her eyes as her body seized and flamed.

For a split second, the entire sky was strewn with stars, thick with glittering pinpricks of light as Alex's scream echoed along the deserted road, melting away along with the last echoes of her voice.

* * *

><p>"You shouldn't be here," Molly Drake muttered as she helped Gene through the door and into her mother's bedroom, pulling a chair out for him and pursing her lips moodily as he collapsed into it, drawing his dressing gown tighter round himself. "The doctor'll crucify me for it."<p>

"Then you tell 'im it was all my idea, Molls love. Come on, come an' chat ter yer mum, I'm sure she's gettin' lonely in there."

"You've got the only chair. And my feet are sore from PE. Can I sit on your lap? It's not like you're a stranger, Mum wouldn't yell at me for it, she knows you and we're surrounded by doctors and you're not like that, I know because I know you properly as well-"

"Molls, you know I'm not a ruddy stranger. Come on, I'm yer mum's friend, I'd never do anythin' like that. 'Ave a seat an' let's see if yer mum'll open 'er eyes fer us today. Beginnin' ter forget which colour they are, yer know, 'aven't seen 'em in such a long time. What colour are they, Molls?"

Molly smiled to herself, easing down onto Gene's lap as he brushed the gown's belt out of the way and patted his thigh in invitation.

"They're green. With hazel flecks, and when she wears her chocolate cardigan you can see all of them like they're lit up. I bought her that cardigan."

"This one?" Gene reached over to the bedside table and picked up the soft cashmere cardigan draped over it, unfolding it and holding it out in front of himself as Molly nodded, snuggling carefully back into him.

"It was her Christmas present. D'you like it?"

"It's lovely, Molls. I think I remember 'er wearin' it a few times… yer mum suits everything though, doesn't she? Very pretty, classy woman, an' she'd never let me forget it."

"She is. All the other girls at school are jealous because their mums are ancient and mine's so young and pretty. One of my friends' mums was forty-five when she had her children. Mum was much younger than that, she was twenty-three."

"Depends on the person though, doesn't it? Depends when yer want children, when yer meet the right person… it's a risky thing, 'avin' children, an' not everyone's ready fer it as early as your mum was. All these girls yer 'ear about nowadays, 'avin' babies when they're not much older than you, they're little more than children themselves, don't know 'ow ter cope with a child. So then their kids grow up like that, without proper families, an' become teenage parents themselves… it's difficult, Molls. But your mum's a strong woman, always 'as been, she knew exactly when she could cope with 'avin' a kid an' she's brought you up well."

He caught a flash of a slightly tearful smile before Molly was staring back at her mother again, clinging onto his pyjamas with both hands like a young child. Just for a second, he had a flash of young Donny back in 1982 doing the same thing, all but asleep as he carried him into the police station and sat him down in an interview room with a slice of his birthday cake and a scotch tumbler full of pop, gently coaxing details of the evening before from him as Alex held onto Donny's little fingers with one hand and stroked his wrist with the other.

"I wish she was strong enough to wake up," Molly said softly, trying not to let her bottom lip tremble and failing. "It's been nearly a month now… I promised Mum that by my next birthday, she'd be awake. I promised her."

There was a long, silent moment, Gene bowing his head wordlessly until his nose brushed Molly's mousy blonde hair, his eyes fixed on Alex's closed ones as Molly wiped a single tear away.

"Molls, it's always 'ard ter judge these things, isn't it? If yer mum's got anythin' ter do with it, I'm sure she'll be awake as soon as possible, but it was a bad injury, an' it might well be better fer 'er ter stay asleep, just fer now. Might 'elp 'er fer when she does wake up."

Molly sniffed, turning her face to wipe her cheek on Gene's shoulder; one strong arm wrapped itself round her back, rubbing gently, and she squeezed his waist, gazing up at him through teary eyes almost eerily similar to his.

"Why couldn't my dad be like you? You're nice, and you make time for me, and you talk with me and joke and things, and you really, really love my mum. My dad just walked out on us, he didn't care about us, he never tried to come and see me and he never sent me birthday presents even when he still lived in England. You're not going to run off and break my mum's heart too, are you, Gene?"

"No, Molls love. I'd never do that, you 'ave my word. Your mum's too special ter be treated like that again, an' the- d'yer think she'd mind me swearin'?"

"Mum swears like a trooper when we're at home. Says it's cathartic, but she won't let me do it. I like swearing, it feels good when you're really angry."

"Well, I'll keep goin', then. Any tosser stupid enough ter treat yer mum as anythin' less than the amazin' woman that she is, doesn't deserve ter spend any time with 'er at all. It's not your loss that yer dad walked out on you, Molls, it's 'is loss through an' through. An' it's a shame that it's hurt you too, an' that just makes 'im even more of a tosser than 'e already was, but you use it ter make yerself stronger, eh? That's what yer mum would want."

Molly nodded jerkily, wriggling around until her head rested in the crook of his neck.

"What bad things have happened to you, Gene, to make you so strong?"

"Eh?"

Surprised, Gene eased back a little to crane down at Molly, eyebrows pursed; Molly smiled up at him, wiping a tear track off her cheek with the back of her hand.

"You're really strong. Everyone says so, the doctors, Anne, Max, I bet my mum would say so as well. And when your mum came to visit you… I don't know, Gene, but when she was talking to you, she kept crying. I thought you were talking about sad things that had happened to you."

"Well. That an' 'er son 'ad been stabbed. But… some shit things 'ave 'appened to me. 'S not that interestin', Molls."

"Yes, it is. I like hearing about other people, and if Mum likes you, then I'm going to be seeing lots of you, aren't I? I want to get to know you and stuff. But if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine too…"

"No, 's… it's fine. Well… my dad was a bit like yours, Molls. Would've sold me ter the devil if there was a drink in it. Didn't give a shit about us, just used ter knock 'us about soon as 'e came home, told us that we 'ad ter be men an' take it 'cos otherwise our mam was next on the list. An' then 'e just 'it 'er anyway, didn't care about 'ow much we took it, an' I never found out or understood why, but I just think 'e was a sick, 'ate-filled man 'oo drank 'imself ter death an' never wanted ter be 'elped."

"That's horrible," Molly said softly, nestling back into Gene's chest; he nodded wordlessly, gently shifting her to the side.

"I always wanted ter be a dad, yer know. I said all sorts about it, claimed I'd never want a little Gene Hunt runnin' around, but… I think I know differently now. Maybe it was just that I 'adn't found the right woman. It nearly 'appened, a long time ago, but she lost it after a couple of months. Never felt right, even when the baby was alive, an' me mam was naggin' me rotten about makin' an honest woman of 'er before the baby came, but no. Would've been 'ell. Was probably just as well she miscarried, I don't know if it would've been happy."

"Were you disappointed?"

"Yeah. S'pose I was. Was the final straw in our relationship, certainly, she was over the moon about it, kept sayin' somethin' must 'ave worked. I don't know if she ever did try ter miscarry, but I wouldn't 'ave put it past 'er. Do me an' the world a favour, Molls, an' never grow up ter be a bitch like 'er."

"What was she called?"

"I never found out 'er real name. She called 'erself Shug."

"Shug? What's that?"

"Was from a novel or somethin', she said. I never looked any further."

"If she killed your baby on purpose… Gene, that's evil."

"It's a screwed-up world, Molls. An' there are screwed-up people in it. Yer'll learn that, an' I wish yer didn't 'ave ter, but if yer stick with the people who love yer, love yer fer real, then yer should be alright."

"My mum told me that… the morning she…"

"Well, she was right, your mum. As bloody usual." Gene chuckled to himself, stretching his tingling leg out slightly and sucking his breath in. "Molls- Molls, me leg's goin' ter sleep, just stand up fer me- thanks, love. I'm OK, just a bit of-"

"Well, aren't you all familiar?"

And suddenly it wasn't only Gene's leg that was tingling.

He could hardly bear to look up, had to force his muscles to work, in case it was just another cruel trick played on him by his mind. In case all he would see would be the shell of the only woman who'd loved him for who he was, comatose and unreachable, her pale face unsmiling, the elegant hands he'd never be able to get enough of limp and lifeless.

But Molly's scream told him otherwise.

And he could barely breathe, choking on nothing as he pushed himself up from the chair and stumbled to the bed, pain and weakness forgotten in his need to get closer to her, to believe that she was back, it was real. Alex's smile was blinding in its brightness, one arm reaching for him as the other held her daughter close, and Gene had to blink back tears as Alex pulled him closer and pressed kiss after kiss to Molly's forehead, unable to stop grinning, laughing breathlessly at his repeated gasps of "Bolly… Bolly… Bolly, is this real? Are you real… What happened? Bolly? Oh God, Bolly…"

"Shut up, Gene," Molly shrieked, delirious with happiness, slinging one arm round him and bracing her mother upright with the other, higher than any druggie on joy and relief. Even as the medical team swamped the room and forced Gene back onto his chair, fearing for his welfare, the three continued laughing with sheer delight, staring round at each other in something akin to disbelief, hands clasped in each others', the very air in the room vibrating with their emotions and laboured breaths as the doctor pronounced Alex good and held the door open for her to be scanned.

Molly followed, her fingers slipping through Gene's as Dr Simmonds stepped out to hold his patient back, firmly telling him he wouldn't be allowed into the scanning room with Alex. Gene seriously considered punching the bastard for not letting him be with Alex, but when he lifted his arm to elbow backwards his legs all but gave way and he was left clinging to the doctor and a nurse who hurried over to make sure he didn't fall.

"Only normal, Gene, you've still got to regain your full strength. I promise you can see Alex as soon as she comes back from her scan."

"But I…"

He needed to be there with her, to make sure that she didn't simply disappear into thin air, didn't leave him as abruptly as she'd returned. But evidently his body didn't agree, and it was all he could do to stagger back to his bed and slump into it before exhaustion was swamping him in waves, the delirium of Alex's awakening leaving him drained but exhilarated.

By the time she returned, Gene was fast asleep, a beam still on his weathered face as Molly tip-toed in to kiss his cheek and squeeze his arm before heading back to her mother, slipping a note into his loosely-curled hand: _Mum says she loves you, and hopes you've slept well. And she wants to talk, as soon as you wake up. So prepare yourself._

* * *

><p>In another world, another life, Shaz slowly lifted her hand and crumbled a handful of earth onto a shining mahogany coffin.<p>

* * *

><p>AN: I know it's been a horrific length of time since I updated this fic, but I'm hoping there's still someone left who wants to read it and some lovely people who will remember to review. Those who read _Youngsters _will remember Save the Fanfics- well, they've adopted this fic too. So, please save this fanfic, which was almost claimed after its last update through muse anorexia, and donate a review to save it. Thank you.

And just to disclaim: the name Shug comes from Alice Walker's _The Color Purple. _I am using the name for a hateful character because I really didn't enjoy the book. I had to read it for my A2 Eng Lit and… well. I'll stop talking about it, because I'm on my holidays, but I don't own Shug Avery or _The Color Purple_, so don't be nasty to me, OK? I'm a nice person really. I only bite if you bite first.


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